


Ain't Gonna Be The Last

by Falln



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: Angst, Blood, Gen, Gun Violence, It isn't written as strictly shippy but could definitely be read that way if you want :), M/M, Suspense, Violence, the violence isn't super graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 13:25:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17643662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Falln/pseuds/Falln
Summary: Under normal circumstances he would speak his mind, or at the very least ask questions, but, with a gun against his head a man makes much different decisions.





	Ain't Gonna Be The Last

**Author's Note:**

> Please be gentle, this is the first RDR2 Fic/Drabble I've written, and the first writing I've posted here.

Under normal circumstances he would speak his mind, or at the very least ask questions, but, with a gun against his head a man makes much different decisions.

The distinctive click of a hammer being pulled back seemed as loud as a canon, as the barrel of a gun twitched against his temple. Arthur's hands were at his sides and raised shoulder height in surrender, not daring to make a move. He was standing, it was dark, and he had no memory of how he got there.

A shot was fired and a shocked cry of pain wracked through the bewildered outlaw. The bullet tore a searing hot path through the back of Arthur's knee, forcing him excruciatingly to the ground, catching himself from falling completely by landing on his remaining good knee. The gunshot causing crimson to pour down his pant-leg and pool slowly in the dirt beneath him.

The man behind the dual revolvers, held one still pressed firmly to Arthur's head. He was yelling, screaming, nearly frothing at the mouth. But each syllable uttered sounded muted, as if beneath a distorted ocean of water, and Morgan couldn't make out a word of it. His vision was starting to fade in and out, in slow, rhythmic pulses. And the world around him was beginning to brighten between pulses, though shapes.. They were blurry.... soft... and difficult to see...

Bright.

Dark.

Bright.

Dark.

Each time his heavy eyelids pulled open, Arthur struggled to keep his focus a little longer. 

The instant his eyes next fell closed, he knew something had gone very wrong. A sharp pain exploded atop his head, and something warm was trickling down his forehead across his eyes. Arthur gasped, and every sense at his disposal intensified for the simplicity of a split second. The actions of reality rushed to him. And a loud shot rang out, as an echo of one man's fate realized a moment too late.

The sound of the gunshot faded into nothing, replaced, a stilled heartbeat later, by the thud of a body hitting dry red dirt. The cracked topsoil thirsty to soak up the quickly flowing pool that turned the earth a deeper hue.

Silence.

A breath was exhaled, and drawn in again raggedly.

Trembling, Arthur lifted his eyes to a glint of silver on the ridge above the canyon in which he had camped. There, in silhouette, stood John. Lowering the rifle clutched in his hands from a firing stance.

Arthur reached up and felt his head, then wiped at his eyes and trailed them to the body of his attacker, laying in the dirt behind him. The bullet had grazed the top of the outlaw's skull and struck the O'Driscoll standing behind him.

It was a man who had a personal vendetta against Dutch's boys, beyond simply following orders. He had managed by happenstance to find Arthur camping alone, and attacked him in his sleep.

The spotted memories of what took place flooded back to the outlaw, as he toppled to a sitting position on the ground and clasped his injured leg while hissing in a breath through his teeth.

Arthur remembered being yanked out of his tent from a dead sleep, and tossed onto the ground beside the smouldering embers in the fire pit, by someone surprisingly larger than himself. He had managed to get to his feet and went for his gun, but it wasn't there. He threw a few disoriented punches into the dark, but only one of them struck home. It hadn't been enough, and something collided with his his head, rendering him unconscious.

When he came to, it had been sudden sharp clarity for the span of a minute, enough to understand his position; he had been somehow standing with a revolver pointed at his head.

He remembered the anger, the yelling, but ... there hadn't been only one angry male voice shouting into the night, there had been two. The other had been... Marston.

The dark haired man's footsteps could be heard haphazardly clambering his way down the hillside, causing lose rocks to skid, and John to cuss a blue streak when he slipped and skinned the palms of his hands in an effort to catch himself. Consequently sending his rifle flying down the incline ahead of him. "God damn it!" He cried out again.

John didn't pause a beat once he picked himself back up, and grabbed his gun while sprinting. A panicked look in his eyes was easily displayed by the sunrise on the horizon, which was dusting the sky with rich golds and pinks.

Arthur had already torn cloth from his blood soaked pants, and was tying it tight around his leg by the time John reached him. Dizziness continued to wash over Arthur, but he fought it off, knowing it would do neither of them any good if he passed out now.

And as the still youngest member of the gang crouched beside him, Arthur realized he had never been more grateful to see John in all his life, until that moment, when he was able to take in the full weight of everything that had happened, and what it meant if John hadn't been there. Truly he couldn't get away with calling John 'kid' anymore, even if he had been of adult age for a few years now.

The injured outlaw did what he could to keep Marston calm in order to stave him away from panicking further. The younger man never was very good at patching wounds, so Arthur had to give instructions on what to do every step of the way, up to the point of being helped onto John's horse; he was too woozy to ride on his own.

John quickly packed up the elder's camp and mounted Old Boy, as the sun finally crested over the top of the ridge on which Marston had been standing, when that fateful shot was fired. Arthur glanced toward it, then slumped forward, resting his forehead on the darker outlaw's shoulder.

"Ya saved my life, John. And one day, I'mmm.. I'm gonna find a way to show you what it ... what you.. mean to me." With those words Arthur went slack, slumping his full weight against the smaller frame of the man before him.

John grunted and scowled, reaching behind himself to shove Arthur back into place when he felt the man start to slide. He figured Arthur would pass out, too much blood was lost not to. The younger man just wished his mentor would have done it in a way that wouldn't have left him awkwardly crushed by the other's weight.

He heaved a heavy sigh, then whistled for Arthur's horse to follow. Muttering, "Dumb ass." Before urging his own horse to go. A few yards down the road he glanced to the unconscious cowboy, who was snoring and drooling down the front of Marston's shoulder.

"You don't gotta repay me.. I know what we mean to each other." John murmured, knowing Arthur would never hear him. "We been savin' each other since we was kids. It's not the first time, and I'm sure it ain't gonna be the last."


End file.
